Tuesday, December 11, 2012

You hear about the market long
before you actually visit it. It is spoken about with ominous fascination. “You
went to the black market?! Wow.” And the next question, invariably, is “So… did
you get robbed?”

Every person who has been to the
market has a story. Either they got robbed or they know someone who did.
Sometimes it happens on the way to the market. Tourists, flush with cash tucked
into a neck pouch, take the minibus marked 'Зах' (it's pronounced by coughing up some phelgm while saying "zacht") from Peace Square in the center of town. A short ride later, they emerge
at the market realizing their neck pouch is still there, yet missing the money!
It’s magical, really. How did they do it? Pick-pocketing in Ulaanbaatar is so
ubiquitous that it has even inspired “How To Get Pick-Pocketed” step-by-step
guides, such as this one.

When Mendee asked if I had a
saddle, I responded with a blank stare. Instead of saying, “Yes. A saddle.
s-a-d-d-l-e. It’s what you put on the horse you just bought,” he
just remarked, “No problem. We will go to the black market.”

The black market! It was exciting
and scary at the same time. I was actually going into the hive of scum and
villainy itself! (Apologies to Tatooine, but Mongolia is weirder.) With all the
stories I’d heard, I devised a plan not even a mother would love. I would hide
some money in one sock at the bottom of my shoe, more in the other shoe, and
some in my underwear. Together, these wads would be sufficient to buy all the
gear I needed. Bwah-ha-ha, my money was impervious! It was genius.

"We don't serve their kind in here" (Tatooine cantina bar)

The first thing you come across upon
entering the market are 4 ATM machines in a little shed. Also in this shed was
an assortment of various shady characters. The first hid beneath a cowboy hat,
the 2nd behind dark sunglasses, and the 3rd under the
Mongolian equivalent of a trench coat. I looked them over and decided if I
wanted a super-awesome pick-pocketing outfit, I could combine all three items
together. Two other foreigners who also needed tack had come with me. They
spied the machines and walked right up to get out gobs of cash. I decided
against putting a sign on their back that said, “please rob me.” I mean,
if the sign was in English it wouldn’t work anyway.

We then entered the sprawling
grounds of the market proper. The other two guys were going on very ambitious
treks, over a month. It was actually fascinating hearing about
their plans, going over their maps, listening to their fears and excitement. To be
honest, I was secretly jealous. Yes, perhaps my beard was thicker and fuller
than theirs, but these men were attempting to be Men. Theirs is a story that
deserves its own blog post later. Anyway, they had to pick up all sorts of
camping gear, and so it was a relief when we finally reached the Department of
Horsey Stuff.

Pretty. Pretty damn uncomfortable for your jibblies

This little corner consisted of a
few worn tents draped in colorful equine decoration of every kind imaginable.
There were bright red and green tassels, gold-fringed bridle pieces, tan
straps, silvery bits, bronze rings, and a host of other odd items whose purpose
I could only guess was horse body-piercing. Next door were piles of sewing
gear, heaps of raw leather, and stacks of colorful saddles of all designs.
There were a few worn Western saddles that actually looked comfortable, Russian
saddles that looked cheap and painful, and plenty of fresh new Mongolian
saddles purposely designed to bash a man’s bits into fine powder. Squatting around
within was also a small tribe of chain-smoking wrinkled old women. Their
gnarled hands were busy hand-sewing giant needles though thick pieces of
leather to create new straps and ropes.

I had absolutely no idea what a
fair price was for a saddle, or girths, or saddle-bags. Or for that matter,
pretty red and gold tassels which I hoped were not screaming that my horse was gay. Mendee was not only there to negotiate for us, but
also make sure we had everything we needed. He was our Mongolian fixer, worth
every penny. We agreed on a “Russian” saddle that had pretty green embroidery,
complete with Buddhist-style knot designs on the leg fenders. I was surprised to find the girths were made of horse hair. It
looked soft and comfortable compared to the hard straps that were used on my
horse-trekking up north. So resourceful, these nomads! Re-using horse hair. Brilliant.
Why didn’t all the ranchers use it?! Instead of this setting off alarm bells,
it made me feel smug that my horse would be the most comfortable one out there.
Mendee nodded his approval, and the stupidest decision of my trip was
locked in.

Finally we settled on a price for everything.
They all turned and looked at me expectantly. I smiled nervously and removed my
shoes. Then I removed my socks, which I noted with interest had begun to sweat
profusely in the hot summer sun. Out came my wads of slightly damp cash, which after
counting came up a bit short. I handed it to Mendee, who put out his arm and
held it as far from his nose as possible. It is difficult for me as a Westerner to read
emotions in Asians, often their faces appear inscrutable. But there was no mistaking the vendor’s look of disbelief at what
was occurring. I then proceeded to put my hand down my pants and start feeling
around. To my dismay, some my 3rd stash had apparently drifted out
of my underwear and down my pant legs. I cleared my throat, and then began
undoing my belt. The vendor eyes began to widen further, and reached what I am
sure is the limit for a person of Asian descent. As I contemplated Eastern
society and the importance placed on propriety, I unzipped my pants. After a
moment, my arm found the rest of the cash. I plunked this sweet-smelling
addition on top of the sweaty feet cash already in Mendee’s hand.

The super awesome 500 Tookirig bill. Ball sweat not included

“OK, … 200,000 Tookirig, you can
count it."

No response.

" … Uh, what’s the problem fellas?”

One of the highlights of the
market was the long aisles of traditional clothes. There were brightly colored
vests, Mongol long-sleeve shirts, caps, and pants. But the highlight and our
reason for coming to this section were the deels: the long cloaks that are the standard
outer-wear for both men and women in the country-side. Most rural families make
their own plain ones of thick cotton and burlap and no ger is complete without
a sewing machine. But here in the city, there were thin light deels of synthetic
materials, silks, thin soft cottons, all intricately decorated with gold and
silver thread patterns. It was fancy and upscale. Browns, greens, whites,
oranges, and even purples and pinks made it clear that this was an item of high
fashion. I wasn’t looking for such a deel, however. After my experience freezing
in the north, I wanted something thick and warm, something ordinary-looking
that would help me blend in. Earth tones would be nice; after all, it would
likely be covered in mud and horse-poop by the time I returned. I settled on a
burnt orange-brown deel with little decoration. However, I allowed myself to
pick out a fairly bright golden-orange sash.

I look so Mongolian it's scary.

“How do I look?” I asked my fellow
Westerners, who were also rummaging for outfits.

Brad replied, “Brown and
orange. Like a Buddhist monk.”

Perfect.

I glanced down at my battered
sneakers which had endured Tokyo asphalt, Philippine skinny-dipping, Chinesecave mud-bathing, and several weeks hiking, um, er… donkey-riding, in Nepal.
Perhaps these were not the best choice for horse trekking. Mendee steered me
down an alley and around a corner I nearly fell into a bin. Behind it were two
more, each stuffed with used black boots of all shapes and sizes, heaped upon
each other in piles that came up to my waist. After looking through them I
realized the workmanship was about on par with Masai flip-flops. (I realize
this comment might not resonate for many, but Masai flip-flops are made by
cutting off a piece of car tire and tying them to your feet with a string.)

These Mongol boots consisted of
leather nailed onto a block of wood. But then again, I would be riding, not walking. And for that, the
high-topped boots were just what I needed to avoid chafing my legs. I haggled
the price down to a reasonable US$10 and pulled out another wad of stinky
Tookirig from my sock. Feeling quite satisfied with this transaction, I
thought, “What could go wrong with these sweet babies?” Such was the incredible
naivety of my happy shopping trip on that bright sunny day.

It had been a very successful trip
to the black market. In fact, on our way out I smiled to myself at how worried
I’d been about thieves. At that very moment, two large men appeared out of nowhere
and bumped into our friend Pete. He was stopped in his tracks. The men looked like they
didn’t see my friend, even though they were obviously blocking him. At that
moment, from behind him another smaller man walked up and, so quick I barely
noticed, quickly put his hand into my friend’s back pocket and walked away. He
disappeared into the crowd before I realized what happened, and when I turned
around the big men who had blocked were also gone in the crowd. Pete turned
around, startled.

“Did you see that? What just
happened?”

“Dude. It all happened so fast, but some
guy picked your back pocket. I think. I mean, I’m not 100% sure.”

“Yeah, I felt that too!" But then he laughed. "You
know what? All I had back there was a piece of paper! I had left it there on
purpose. They got nothing. Ha ha!”

“Oh man, you should’ve wrote
something on it, like: "Congratulations! You came all the way to the black
market and all you pick-pocketed was this piece of lint.’”

“Yeah! Or how about: ‘This quality
piece of paper is worth more than a 100 Tookirig bill. Well played.’”

A hundred Tookirig was worth about 1 cent.

“Ha ha ha!!! Oh man, that is f-ing
hilarious!! Nice one.”

They got nothing. You would have
to be pretty dumb to put money in your back pocket in a place like this.
But then again, I had noticed plenty of clueless Western tourists in the city.
Many more than I expected, to be honest. Mongolia, or at least the 3 day
packaged-tour version of it, was definitely on the map. We were all a little
shaken up by this and quickly made our way back to the car.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

In the morning, I awoke before the
girls and re-started the embers to make a morning pot of instant Nescafe. (Nescafe is gourmet coffee in the
countryside, mostly because it's the only one without dirt.) Sitting in the happy silence of the morning, I watched the pale rays of our sun saunter up the hills. Even the horses were still
half-asleep. They would stand, slack-jawed, heads drooped, only rarely waking
up to take a bite. I looked for Rocky. Oddly, he wasn’t there. Fresh caffeine
in my veins, I bolted up and ran to the meadow to get a clear view. Ah, there
he was, standing on a distant hill. Wait, what?! How was he so far away? I
slowly approached, and when I neared I noticed his long rope. It drug
behind him, and finally ended at an uprooted stake.

I thought back on the previous
night, how easily I had managed to pound the stake into the soft ground, still wet from rain. I had
congratulated myself on how quickly I had setup camp. Now, I slapped my forehead
in self-disgust and relief. (For the people who follow my blog, I believe I am now up to 17 forehead slaps. Makes me wonder how I'm still traveling and not in a Chinese prison.) How lucky it was that Rocky, after
realizing he could wander free, decided to stay close. Perhaps it was the company
of other horses. Perhaps we were finally becoming broskis. Either way, I
was glad to see the ol’ boy. I took a little extra time brushing him down.

The guide had arrived in the
meantime. With quick efficiency he broke down camp and had the horses ready. We rode up to the
trail and past the (thankfully) empty tourist ger camp. As we rounded the bend
and headed north again, our eyes beheld a majestic view. Tall granite bluffs rose on each side of the narrow valley. Piles of big boulders sat below in perfect heaps as if they had been carefully
placed by an obsessive-compulsive giant. The cliffs took on the shapes of animals, and at one
point I was sure I was looking at an Easter Island head. Alpine forests dotted the hills, and in the distance great mountains towered over all. Above the bluff, a bird of prey spread its huge wings, then lazily floated in circles without a single flap. I watched in fascination. It would occasionally scan the ground for a meal. But mostly it seemed to enjoy showing off that it could just as easily be sitting on a couch watching Seinfeld.

The horses seemed eager, and we
made good time. The morning sun warmed our backs from it's blue perch. We entered
a small grove of cedar and the breeze took on the faint scent of pine. And then, without warning, we emerged into a blinding meadow. Thousands, no, millions of large yellow flowered rods rose in a thick meadow along both sides of the trail. The sunlight hit the still fresh dew on their petals and lit them on fire. In a moment we were enveloped by a dazzling gold blanket.

I laughed and
turned to find the blonde looking back at me with a goofy expression of wonder.
Even the grumpy Butch couldn’t keep her frown on. It is difficult to take
pictures while riding but I had gotten decent at it during my previous
trekking, and managed to fire off a few. The trick of course is to not only stop
the horse, but keep him stopped while you fumble with the camera with your free
hand. This is not easy when he wants to keep up with his buddies. After a
moment I put down the camera to let my eyes see it.

This is actually not far off. Just swap in some mongol horses and lesbians. -foto by Janet Dickens

At length, we found ourselves
overlooking a broad treeless flat plain, inhabited only by scrub and tall
reeds. Far in the distance, the plain ended in a cul-de-sac of tall mountains. A dead end. We must be getting close. We descended to the bottom,
where the trail quickly narrowed to a single dark track. The guide stopped us, then
said, “Swamp. Behind me, follow, slowly slowly.”

So this was the dreaded swamp! I
looked around at the tall mountains on all sides. Any water that drained from
them would end up here, in this low depression. No wonder. The guide tried his
best to walk us around the worst of the bogs. But after the 3rd time
his horses’ forelegs disappeared beneath the muck, and his horse thrashing in
terror, I began to choose my own path. To be honest, navigating a swamp is
mostly intuition and luck. It all looks the same, and you never know what will
be firm and what will suck your wheels into the depths.

Pretty much what was going on in my imagination

I thought back to the hell-on-earth
experience up north, surrounded by blood-sucking insects and watery black quicksand. It was a ride of pain and fear. I
prepared myself mentally for the challenge. But … as we marched forward, … the
bug armadas never came. And, to my surprise, the bogs were short and infrequent.
Between them was firm ground. It was difficult going, without doubt. But compared
to what I’d experienced before, it was nothing.

After all the planning, all the
worry about this trip, the fear of the swamp, the desire to truly challenge
myself… I found myself, well, … I
suppose I was disappointed.

It was all simply too easy.

Ghosts in the Woods

Presently the ground lifted and
became firm. Tall trees formed rank around us. After only a short ride, I
noticed a few blue and white ribbons around a tall tree. Then more ribbons. Finally
at the top of a rise, it appeared. A large wall of stones, overgrown by moss and trees disappeared into the brush. Heaps of blue and white ribbons fluttered in the light breeze from nearby trees. This, then, was the hidden monastery.

Little remained of the outside but the wall. Beyond the entrance, a smaller stone chamber formed a gloomy space where the inner temple had stood. I walked in. Mongolian graffiti covered the
dark walls. Most of it seemed to be names and dates, marking perhaps where little Odoo and Jinba had snuck in and kissed. I looked closer, and realized it wasn’t just dark. It was soot ... so thick you could you could still rub your finger on it and have it come away black. At one time a high pagoda of wood must have risen here. At the end of
long solitary trail, tucked into a picturesque forest clearing, had lain this gem. It must have been an impressive sight to
the visiting pilgrim.

Now all that remained was rubble.

The symbolism was powerful. It was
hard to fathom, the great lengths the communist destroyers had come on their
quest to eradicate all traces of religion. This remote monastery was miles from
any road, surrounded by mountains, defended by swamp. I imagined the peaceful
monks going about their routine. One day, soldiers appeared. And then burned
the place to the ground.

That beard is in full revolution

Karl Marx had a simple idea. He wanted to end the suffering of the working class and poor. Yet here I stood,
half a world away, next to a monument where the poor and defenseless had been attacked. It is one of the great
ironies of history. Communism had been proven to be a failed ideology not just because the economics didn't work. The biggest problem was that its utopian ideal of equality had an unforeseen side-effect. The revolution created a vacuum of power that was filled by the power-hungry. These
leaders, elected by no one and answerable to no one, raised in a world of tsars and emperors, were inevitably corrupted. (Especially the Soviet version and it's cult of personality.) Ultimately, it led to atrocities beyond imagination. This one little temple was only a footnote.

And then I noticed a single
solitary chapel. It was set off from the main entrance, recently built and
brightly decorated. Recent offerings of melted candles, incense, and flowers
clumped around the small image of a puckish Chinese Buddha. He seemed quite
content considering the surroundings.

It was a seed of hope, sprouting up quite nicely.

Failure is an option

Nearby was a pleasant clearing
where a table of sorts had been created out of massive cedar logs. Carved
stumps made chairs. We settled among them, nestled under sprawling tree limbs,
surrounded by natural beauty. We just needed a few hobbits to come join us.

Afterwards, the guide informed me
that their group would be heading back a different way, and that I should
return on my own. I was surprised and a little sad at this expulsion. It had
been so much more enjoyable riding free and light. Perhaps the guide hadn’t
liked my slow pace, or more likely, perhaps the butch hadn’t liked the
competition for the blonde’s attention. Either way, I was forced to load my
pack, tent, and ropes onto Rocky once more. I set off down the hill and within
a few hours had re-crossed the swamp.

Ahead of me, the road split. One
single track continued along the cliff, a larger path went up the hill. I
realized that after I’d joined the group I’d stopped paying close attention to
the terrain, and wasn’t sure which way to continue. But I was pretty sure we’d
stayed on the larger trail, and continued up the hill. About 30 minutes later,
at the top, I noticed the girls and the guide arrive at the fork below. They
continued straight along the cliff. I stopped in confusion.

Perhaps the single track had been right. I backtracked down the hill once more, and began to follow the other
group. But after only a few hundred yards, the trail narrowed further and we
were walking through grass under cliffs I know I had not seen before. On my own
not more than a few hours, and already I was completely lost! I slapped my forehead
extra hard (18 and counting...), got off my horse, and trudged back through grass
and shrubs and forest to the top of the hill once more.

Late in the afternoon I finally
reach the gers and our camp from the previous night. We needed to make time so
I urged Rocky back to a trot. After two steps the saddle suddenly slipped to
the left and I nearly tumbled to the ground head-first. At the last instant I managed to grab
onto the mane, visions of a wheel-chair bound existence in my head. And there I clung, ass bouncing in the air, while Rocky continued his trot. He nonchalantly
looked back over his shoulder at me, apparently curious as to what trick-riding stunt I
would attempt next. Finally I hauled myself back on top and stopped him.

Once back on solid ground I found my legs were shaking. I sat down, took in some deep breaths, and went to my happy place. For some reason, this time it had nothing to do with Pam-zilla smashing Tokyo with her bolt-ons. Instead, I thought of Mr. Rogers putting on some loafers. You know it's a close call when you are summoning the pure tranquility of the Neighborhood. But it had been the 3rd time in 2 days I’d
nearly been thrown, and the idea of getting seriously injured alone in the
wilderness wasn’t getting any more fun.

It's funny because today you can just wear loafers to work

After a minute I got to my feet
and looked under the horse to find the front girth dangling in two pieces. It
had snapped. Actually, it had snapped again. The girth had already come apart
two earlier times, luckily only resulting in a loose saddle. Mongolians use a
double-girth, and the rear one had held up. Fortunately, or perhaps by design,
the girth had been much longer than necessary so I could repair it by simply
tying it back together with knots. But after two of these repairs, there was
now just enough left for one more knot. I fixed and re-tightened the saddle.
And then I just stood there.

If I got back on, maybe
the saddle would hold, and maybe it wouldn’t. If that girth broke one more
time, not only was the horse useless, but I would be stuck with a big pile of
gear miles from help. I raised my hand to slap my forehead, but this screw-up was too big. I wanted to put both my hands to my head and scream. But
I couldn’t even do that, because poor Rocky might decide to bolt. So I just sat
down and started punching the dirt, over and over until my fists hurt, sulking.

You see, I had purchased this
saddle in the infamous UB black market. I have waxed on eloquently about the virtues of the Mongol saddle,
such as how it manages to simultaneously give you hemorrhoids while smashing
your balls, which is quite a feat when you think about it. So I had decided to
upgrade to what the Mongols call a “Russian” saddle. Mongol saddles consist of a loose pad over a bent iron bar, and have a
raised front end perfectly designed to smack you in the jibblies. The upscale “Russian” model replaced the pad with
leather, lowered the jibbly-smacking front-end, and used two planks of wood. In other words, instead of my weight driving narrow iron
bars into the poor horse’s back, now it was comfortably grinding two hard
wooden planks into its back. Much better.

My saddle was pretty
fancy, really. It had nice smelly new leather and bright green-and-gold
embroidered leg pads (“fenders”) dangling on either side, covered in cool
Mongol symbol things. And when I saw the beautiful girths made of actual horse
hair, I thought, “By George's jibblies! Tickle my crumpets! They actually reuse
the horse hair and integrate it into the saddle! These Mongols are top of the pop. Geniuses, really!” And I happily handed over my Tookirig to
the smirking saddle schlepper.

This was what I pondered
as I lay on my back, looking up at the knotted and mangled girth of ridiculous horse-hair.

But before I continue my
story, I have to say a few more words about that black market. Obi Wan has never seen such a hive of scum and villany.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

I took some small pride in the fact
that I broke down my horse and watered and staked him without any help from the
guide. He was plenty busy with the four horses in his own group and I was happy
not to be a burden. I quickly had my tent pitched and walked with my food to
the side of the brook. Here I was pleased to be greeted by a pile of nomad fire
stones. These stones were often left at good camping grounds and their presence
saved the time and effort of gathering new ones. But it was more than that. To
me, they were a greeting: “This is a safe place to camp, weary
traveler. Welcome.”

As I was about to light up a fire,
I glanced up to notice our guide had finished with all the horses save his own.
He lifted his saddle and an incredible sight was uncovered. His gorgeous black
stallion had a horrific saddle sore, the size of a small dinner plate, pink and
oozing blood and pus. I was shocked and disgusted. In the western world, even a small
patch of worn hair and scarred skin under the saddle is cause for alarm. The
horse must be rested and allowed to heal. To allow a saddle sore to progress to
this point was simply unthinkable.

A bad saddle sore. At least this horse is seeing a vet

I thought back on the pace of this
group, how the guide probably had to be back soon to meet the next tourist
group. He had worked this horse day after day after day, never allowing
it to heal. For Mongols, animals are simply a source of income. They are a
commodity. When that commodity no longer produces, they are discarded. To allow
the horse to heal would probably cost the guide more money in lost revenue than
to work it death and buy a new one.

I tried to look away but could not. It was incongruent, this beautiful strong animal
and its gaping wound. The guide obviously did not share my concern, and
quickly broke it down with practiced efficiency.

I busied myself with collecting
wood and lighting a fire, taking my mind off the horse. With little problem it
was lit and my meal was cooking. I offered the fire to the guide, but he shook
his head. Without another word, he re-saddled his commodity and rode off to the
gers. Presently the girls finished with their tent and joined me. I mentioned
the guide had left.

“Oh, that’s what he did last night,”
said the blonde. “He’s going off to get drunk with his pals.”

I nodded. I suppose this wasn’t a
surprise, really. I finished boiling my pot of water and offered the fire but
the girls also declined. Damn. My one chance to offer something to the group had been
a complete Fail. Instead, the grumpy Butch pulled out some plastic containers and proceeded
to mix together various colorful tubes with a white paste. Upon finishing, they
both tucked in with some spoons and made happy “mmmm-nnnmm” noises.

“This hummus is delicious! I can’t
believe you managed to bring basil into Mongolia,” purred the blonde.

“Yep ... *nosh* ... didya know the
hummus is pesticide-free too,” replied the Butch. “We’re safe from the horde! Ha ha ha *snort*!!!” Apparently this was a very clever joke.

They giggled at their ingenuity in avoiding any chance of contamination from local food. I had to bite my lip
to not burst out with incredulous laughter. Holy shit! I thought. They were f-ing vegetarians. And they had come to Mongolia, of all places! The land of meat, milk,
and more meat and milk. I secretly prayed that they ran out of pesticide-free
organic hummus and sun-dried vegan tomato paste, and I would have the pleasure
of watching them force down dried yak.

I admit, I do like the thrill of
sipping on the occasional snake blood cocktail or munching down a fried
cockroach. But its much more than that. The whole point of getting your feet
blistered, your nails dirty, and your hair twisted into a bird’s nest half-way
across the world is to experience something different! It’s about seeing what those strange
faces on the Discovery channel actually do for fun when the camera's off.
It’s about the sudden realization that the tired old man plowing the rice paddy with
his water buffalo, covered in muck and burnt under the sun, wants nothing more at the end of the day than to drink a beer and fart on the couch. Which is pretty much what I like to do.

It's one thing if you are stuck in your little pretentious bubble-world of organic hummus and kale smoothies at home. (Full disclosure: I love hummus and kale is strangely growing on me.) But it's quite another to take your bubble with you halfway around the world. How the hell are you supposed to reach out and make a meaningful connection to the local people if you are hiding in a tour bus? Well... you won't. It's not enough to walk in another man's shoes. If you want to understand another culture, you have to eat like them, drink like them, and yes, sometimes you have to squat above a slippery Chinese cliff and take a doodee.

For most people on a short trip, I understand it's not easy. They are there for the beautiful scenery. They aren't there to see how the locals live or, God forbid, make a connection. So I realize I'm ranting a bit. But it's a damn shame, really. I mean, going local is a total blast! You get to try new languages that make your mouth hurt, wear ridiculous clothes, slap new handshakes and bob new greetings, shout new drinking salutes, and perhaps most importantly, chow down on weird foods that somehow all taste a bit like chicken. The weirder the better in my opinion. There is nothing more fun than tucking into a revolting plate of “ants climbing trees” and being pleasantly surprised to find it tastes a like delicious soy-drenched Portobello.... mixed with chicken.

"Ants Climbing Trees." Yes it's real. Real good.

The people of Earth are full of wonders. Yet, we choose to remain divided. So few attempt even a small step across the gaps.

So, when I wanted my new lesbian
friends to be forced to gnaw on dried yak, it was partly out of the knowledge
that such a traumatic experience would become the best story of their trip to their
horrified tofu-munching friends back home. But mostly, I just wanted to watch
some vegans squirm as they ate meat.

As soon as they were finished, the
Butch escorted her femme back to their tent. My hope of having
pleasant conversation in real red-blooded American for the first time since I
could remember quickly ended in disappointment. Once again, I was on my own for
the night. I broke down the cooking fire to make a new bed of embers, and then
plunked down a nice fat log. Just as the evening chill began to set in, the fire
grew and the warmth from the flames began to pleasantly spill onto my face and
arms.

I was alone, but it was a
contented loneliness.

Fire Song

I pull out
my tattered journal. The coarse, beautiful Nepalese home-made paper is golden
yellow in the light. I am here, now. The rain has passed. Cold drifts near, it settles close to me. Hello bonfire! Ahh. Such a
perfect companion you are on this crisp night. I write, my fingers and toes warm.

The stars yawn, stretch, and light. How
I miss these stars! It has been too long.

The sky becomes ink. So black and
clear that I can see deep into infinity, into formless void itself. Somewhere in there, beyond my human sight, all creation arose. The stars burn so bright and clear I can see their hidden colors. One reddish, one tinged with blue. A cup of silver glitter is spilled across the ceiling: the milky way. I greet the big dipper, the north star, and the summer triangle. (Or summer Dorito,
as I prefer to think of it.) My oldest friends, from hazy summer memories when
I was only a ball of dirt and snot, chasing fireflies, tumbling on the dewy
night grass of the farm. You are still with me, after all these years.

Old friends, hello.

Astrophysicist Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson was asked by a reader of TIME magazine, "What is the most astounding fact you can share with us about the Universe?" This is his answer.

And now, a horrible poem. A-hem ... ok, ready. Here we go:

Fire Song

Dancing flame, fingers smoke

Burning keys they play

A billion stars on purple cloud

Body sagging, warming rays

The stream softly sings

Tinkling liquid, dark

Munch, munch the horses

Harmonies their part

So far away from

things I
thought I knew.

Now, I am connected

To something strange and new

FIRE! Wild you are

Wild like we were

Today we all are caged

So together let us burn

(Wasn't that painful was it? OK, OK, maybe it was. Just wait until I put music to it...)

The last time I saw a sky this
bright was under the shadow of the north face of Everest. But even that
awestruck night did not have the warmth of the fire or the music of the stream.

Ahh! The troubles of traveling,
the freezing rain, the horrible endless cramped buses, the lack of sleep, the
dirty noisy dorms, the soul-ripping pain of being robbed.

All is made up for and more by
these rare, heart-breaking moments of beauty. It is that unique and most
treasured gift.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

I reluctantly left Happy Ger Camp
and headed off in the light misty rain north, following the river into the valley. We
rode up and up, crossing a rock-strewn dry bed where as usual I got off and
walked to lighten the load. Smaller valleys ran off into the hills. I took out
my map and tried to see if any of them were the ones I was supposed to take.
Big Poppa had made it clear that I should stay on the main trail all the way.
Very unsure of myself, I kept going.

So left at the 3rd hill, 4 blocks past the bush. Got it!

My backback began to wear on me. Rocky of
course was overloaded, but so was I. It turns out wearing a backpack of food
while horseback riding becomes extremely uncomfortable after a few hours.
Yesterday it hadn’t bothered me too much, but today I began to curse my lack of
a pack horse. I just wanted to cover enough ground to get the riding for the
day over with and camp. I attempted to get Rocky to trot, but he was very
reluctant. Perhaps he was tired; after all, we were heading uphill the entire
time.

So, I took turns riding and then
getting off to walk. I tried not to think about what this would mean for my feet wearing these Mongol boots o' nails. Up ahead I finally saw another settlement, consisting of a
run-down shack and some piles of scrap. No ger in sight, which was odd. But I
was getting anxious about my bearings, and decided to say hello. As I neared a
large Mongolian dog came out barking frantically. Mongols love them and in the
city you may come across expensive pure-bred Dobermans, German Shepherds, and
other “power” dogs. But increasingly rare are pure-bred Mongol breeds. I had
seen similar animals in Tibet, which are greatly treasured. These are large,
muscular sheep-dogs with comically long hair like a Yak. But when one comes up
to you growling and barking and snipping at your horse’s heels it is not nearly
as funny. I stole a quick look at Rocky to see if he was spooked, but
surprisingly he seemed completely relaxed. Perhaps he had grown up around them.

The awesome Tibetan mastiff. Native mongol breeds are similar

Reassured, I rode up near the
shack and dismounted. However, as I was about to hitch Rocky I heard a
commotion. Out from the door burst an apparition, which I can only describe as
a wicked witch. Her clothing was a colorless gray ragged wool cloak, her hair
was a bird’s nest of gray tendrils that could almost be called post-modern art.
Kind of like those sculptures made from used diapers and hub-cabs that are found in all modern hotel lobbies. From a face
that had seen too much suffering in one life, she screamed and spat in a broken
voice. “ZAIIILLTHFFF!!! HUUUUTTZZZ!!!” With great arm motions she waved me
away. Then a teenage boy emerged from the shack, banging on a pot with a metal
stick. He also began screaming at me to leave.

“OK, OK, I’m leaving!” I said
pointing at myself and then away with my arm. This did not seem to calm them. The wraith howled and spat, the man banged, the massive yak-dog barked. We retreated quickly, the dog nipping and growling at poor Rocky for a half-mile before
finally turning around satisfied.

I was a little bit shocked at what
had just happened. Especially after the wonderful encounters I’d experienced
since the morning, each progressively better than before. What had I done
wrong? Only much later did I put myself in the old woman’s shoes. (Or lack
thereof.) She was clearly on her own, as it is usually the man’s duty to greet
visitors. She was left alone to raise her son in the wilderness. Clearly,
something bad had happened to her husband and family. Perhaps visitors had accosted
her. Perhaps she had gone mad. No matter what the reason, I felt only sorrow.
No one in the world should be left to raise a child as a widow.

Yak cart

I felt relief as we escaped the
dog, but suddenly Rocky’s ears pricked and his nostrils flared. His head bolted
upright, and then, without warning he began that horrible sideways walk. I felt
sick as I pulled the reins tight and looked around frantically for the source.
On the main trail coming down from the mountains, a pair of yaks was pulling a
cart. As they walked downhill, the bells around their
necks clinged and clanged. Apparently this combination must have appeared as
some strange musical monster to Rocky. Thank Buddha we were still far enough
away that Rocky didn’t lose it completely. I steered him in a very wide berth
around the yak cart, and only after it was safely in the distance did I dare
return to the main trail. It had been a close call. Twice now in the same day I
had been atop a spooked horse, and I did not want to experience a 3rd.

Trash of the Elite

We rode onwards and upwards. My
back grew increasingly sore. I perversely began to look forward to running out
of food if only to lighten my backpack. After rounding a corner, we reached an
overlook of a large flat valley. A line of beautiful trees meandered through
the plain. Red, pink, and purple flowers sprouted everywhere. On both sides rose large
green foothills. Between the trees flowed the crystal clear Blue Rock River,
crossing from one side of the valley to the other. At that moment, I suddenly felt
light and warmth on my face. The clouds peeled away as the sun blossomed in a
vivid blue sky. Never are colors brighter and more beautiful than when dark
clouds are contrasted with sunny earth, and suddenly the land was painted in
saturation. The hair rose on the back of my neck,
a warm tingle crept up my spine. This was one of those moments I had waited
for, back in my cubicle. This very instant. Though
I was still cold and wet from the morning storm, I couldn’t help but burst out
laughing. My eyes lingered over the scene.

Not found in cubicles

We made our way down to the river,
and as usual I dismounted to cross. On the other side an impossible scene
greeted us. I could not believe my eyes. A cluster of shiny sport utility
vehicles sprawled around a small field. They spilled open with coolers of food
and liquor. A large boombox blasted the
worst kind of Asian techno-pop you can imagine. (Remember, these are the people
who still, to this day, flock to see Bon Jovi. For a sample of brain-dissolving K-pop, which has spread like cancer throughout Asia, click here. You are warned…)

Garbage littered the ground. Empty
beer cans lay in piles in the grass. Plastic bags blew away in the breeze. I
knew it was my Western sensibilities at work, but the sight of this trash
desecrating the land of Mongolia made me ill.

Nemo's heirarchy of needs

They didn’t know any better,
though, and I could not blame them. A society where basic needs are met was rare in the part of the world where I was currently tromping. In Maslow's heirarchy, environmentalism pretty much doesn't make the cut.

A crowd of “big-boned” Mongol
teens and their equally large girlfriends hooted, stumbled, and sang along to a
tune that combined Flock of Seagulls synth beats with style of rapping that
would make your pet hamster commit suicide. How on God’s green earth had these
vehicles made it out here? There was no road to speak of, and the crossing over
the rocky streams would claw out the transmission from most cars. The closest
village, Terelj, had a population of 100 people and 101 horses. I had not seen
a single motorized vehicle.

And these were nice trucks—there was a Mercedes and
a BMW in the mix.

There was only one explanation.
These were rich kids from UB, and they were on a mission to get as far from
their parents as possible to get as fucked up as possible. My guard raised to
DEFCON 2. (Movies and pop culture always get the DEFCON scale wrong. DEFCON 5 is low alert, DEFCON 1 =
nuclear war. Then again, perhaps the backwards scale says more about our
military than the general public.)

I began to steer Rocky off the
main trail into the lumpy plain, when a pair of obliterated fat Mongol teens,
arm-in-arm, called out to me.

“Hello! Hello! Come talk to
uzzz…!” they slurred in fairly good English. One raised a bottle of vodka in
offering. The proclivity of Rocky to spook around strange noises was the only
thing on my mind as I quickly prodded him further away and we soon were a good
distance from the party. The disappointed women stopped and finally turned
back. We also stopped and I took stock. They were just kids having a good time.
Harmless. In fact, in different circumstances, it could have been a wonderful
encounter. These kids spoke English, they were rich and probably well educated,
and they were in a great mood. They would have likely enjoyed talking with an
American, traveling solo on horseback. And I could have asked so many
questions, about what they thought of the modernization of Ulaanbaatar, where
they thought Mongolia was headed, the rise in crime in the city, what city kids
thought about the cowboy life of the country. All while drinking Mongolian
gasoline, arm in arm with the happiest, fattest, drunkest Asians of Asia. But…
there was no chance of this. Rocky wouldn’t last a minute with that dying-cats techno in the background. And so
with reluctance I continued onward.

Lesbo Junction

Rocky continued to resist my attempts
to get him to trot. He was simply over it. Even worse, my saddle had gotten a
bit loose. So, with great annoyance, I realized I would have to take a break
and redo everything. I removed his saddle and put everything on the ground. My
sore back needed the break anyway, and so, holding the lead, I simply sat down
and rested for a bit a little ways off the road.

We were making very slow progress.
The whole concept of horse trekking was questionable. I mean, a walking horse
doesn’t go much faster than a person, and then there is all the overhead. The
setting up and breaking down of tack, the watering, the feeding, the constant
worry. I mean, I would make better time walking with a backpack when all was
said and done! What was the point?!

With these dark thoughts in mind, a trio of riders apparated in the distance. (Yes, I used a Harry Potter verb.) The lead rider saw me, and he left
the trail to approach. He was a Mongol
riding a beautiful black horse, towing a huge muscular pack horse that was
obviously European. Two 30-something women (I'll give them a puma rating) completed the group. One was fairly
attractive and thin with long blond hair, the other stockier with a square jaw
and thick close-cropped black hair. We examined one another without saying
anything.

The guide asked me if everything
was alright. From his perspective he saw a solo rider stranded in the middle of
a field. I told him I was fine, just taking a rest. After explaining I was
heading to the monastery, he stated in broken English that he was leading this
group to the same place. He looked over my pile of gear and backpack and my
smallish horse, then frowned.

He motioned that I put my extra
stuff on his giant pack horse. “You come with us.” It was a generous offer, and made
even more so by the fact that he made it without even consulting his guests. My
eyes widened at the thought. How wonderful it would be to throw my excess gear on the pack
horse, and to be able to ride light and free! How much better it would be for
Rocky! I quickly agreed and transferred the extra gear to his large horse,
which would clearly have no problem with the extra weight.

I do like the
Mongolian horses. They are tough and fast, and their smaller size has its
advantages. They are easy to mount and handle, and the smaller legs means their
trot has a faster beat which is a little smoother than the jolting Western trot.
(Riding a trotting donkey, an even smaller animal, is even that much more
comfortable. But … what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.) In terms of carrying
capacity, however, nothing beats the strength of a large Western horse.

I re-saddled Rocky, we headed back
to the main trail together and off we rode. The guide led his horse into a
trot, which the girls’ horses immediately matched. I prodded Rocky and he also
took off in a trot, a little easier than before. This was very encouraging.
Soon we were making great progress. But no sooner had we got going than we had
to cross Blue Rock River yet again. Knowing Rocky, I got off and crossed
slowly, while the other horses went ahead and were soon out of sight. This was
not good. If I couldn’t keep up I would be a burden. As soon as I made it over
I mounted up and urged Rocky to go fast. But, it turns out that Rocky simply
wasn’t a very fast horse. Even unburdened, I had some difficulty in catching
back up to the group. The guide went at a fast trot, almost a run, covering
ground very quickly. Mongols always choose the best horses as their own, and
his beautiful jet-black gelding looked strong and fit and muscular. I found myself more than a little jealous. Poor Rocky was a dumpy plain
Jane compared to this supermodel. Finally, I had no alternative and forced
Rocky into a run. At length we rejoined the group. The guide looked over at me
with a frown. Perhaps he was regretting his offer of help.

I was surprised at his hurry. Most
guided treks I’d witnessed were slow walking affairs, ambling along as if the
guides were paid by the hour and wanted to maximize their profit. In fact, for
longer guided treks that may have been the case. But this trek to the monastery
was probably advertised as a 3-day, 2-night trip and the guide had a schedule
to keep. Perhaps more guests were waiting upon his return. For him, time was
money.

It was disappointing to realize
this. My dreams of trekking alone had been fading with each person I met, and were
shattered after the encounter with the drunken SUV party. But to know that my
quest to find the secret monastery could be arranged as a tour was even worse. I consoled myself with the fact that at least I was keeping up. Barely.

Horses are herd animals. They like
to be around their own kind, and there is nothing they like more on a trek than
to bury their nose in the horses’ ass in front of them. This allows them to
turn off their brains and slip into cruise control. And it was good for me to.
I didn’t have to constantly steer Rocky or prod him to keep up; once he
realized this was his new pack, he was happy to revert to a sheep. But more
than anything, the gift of meeting this group was that suddenly I no longer
needed to concern myself with where I was headed. The greatest stress in solo
trekking, it turns out, is the constant worry of becoming lost. This gorilla
was now lifted from my shoulders.

As we rode along, I finally had
the chance to say my hellos to the girls. The blonde had an easy smile and chatted
happily. They were from Colorado on a girl’s adventure weekend. It made me
smile when she said that. There are basically three types of
fellow Yanks that you meet backpacking: New Yorkers, Californians, and Coloradans. New
Yorkers are well-versed in Europe and can often be found saying things such as "I'm so over Prague, soooo touristy, nothing like when I visited back in <insert year they visited, even if it's last year>. Budapest is where it's at, man. It's so authentic." Californians are found throughout Australia and the Southeast Asia
circuit, and are easily distinguished by their sparkling new didgeridoo they have no idea how to play. (I'm sure I have one somewhere in my backpack.)

Slater + Didge. Mick Fanning's face is priceless: "Shit. Which end do I shove in my face?"

Coloradans, on the
other hand, will pop up in the oddest places. I have found them anywhere from
Argentina to Africa, and now here was a pair in Mongolia. They seem to be the
most adventurous of the lot. The funny part is that there seem to be very few exceptions
to this 3-regions rule. And you know what: I was perfectly happy with that. Yes
there will always be fat obnoxious Americans from Texas and Ohio traveling to
hotels throughout the world, but there are these types of tourists from every
country. Backpackers, though, are a different
breed. They tend to go out of their way to mingle with the locals and seek out
areas that have not yet been spoiled. They are the vanguard, and therefore make
the first impressions upon a local populace. If our most important ambassadors
were from these select spots, then the US was representin' just fine.

I smiled at the short-haired jock.
She scowled back. Interesting. As we trotted along, I did my best to post a
little. (Posting is pushing up on the stirrups every other beat, which makes
trotting somewhat bearable for a man’s walnuts.) The blonde, however, had a very
different technique. She let the horse bounce her in the air at every beat,
which resulted in her lady-parts getting smashed into the saddle like a
jack-hammer. She practically squealed with delight at this, and was so happy
she had difficulty concentrating on our talk. The jock was a novice rider as
well but could at least ride without getting bounced. She looked over at us from
time to time to frown.

No doubt about it: riding is much easier on women

And then the light-bulb went off.
This was more than a girl’s adventure weekend. This was a date. It couldn’t
have been more obvious: the cute femme, the stern butch, and duh! horse-riding. Butch
wasn’t happy because she was jealous. Not only was the horse pleasing her lover
a little too easily, she now had to deal with a strange guy tagging along as
well. Poor Butch. Being the man in the relationship, she may have paid for the
whole thing.

We cruised along matching our
guide’s fast trot, chewing up huge chunks of distance in short order. Rocky was
now unburdened, and without my backpack I felt light and free. The horses
pumped forward in rhythm, the land slipped away. We flew over the green fields,
blooms of flowers splashing their colors. Even the mighty distant mountains
slowly slid past. So this was horse trekking!! Compared to the grueling forest plod
of yesterday, I felt like Iron Man in flight. (I even had a couple of girls along, just like Iron Man.) Never again would I doubt the
importance of the pack horse.

Ahead the trail split in two, the
path more traveled leading to the left. This then was the turn to the west on
my map. The sun was low in the sky at this point, but we continued on. At
length, we saw a set of well-kept gers tucked under a rocky hill in the
distance. Our guide stopped the caravan, and then he turned his horse in a
circle, looking around intently. My hopes of spending the night in a comfy ger
were dashed when he motioned us off the path down to a valley. Across a small
meadow, we came upon a babbling brook protected by tall brush. Water. Shelter from the wind.

Satisified, he said “Camp,” and dismounted.

I followed suit, and stood contemplating this latest turn of events. Not a few hours before, I had sat on the ground in defeat, tack in disarray, humbled. When out of thin air appeared my very own guide and pack horse, with a bonus pair of lesbians thrown in.